


Early Works

by Wallwalker



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Community: fandomweekly, Community: fic_promptly, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6530026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallwalker/pseuds/Wallwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perfection doesn't come easily, or without pain. (Vignette collection.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early Works

_Every artist creates a thousand forgettable works before his first masterpiece. Persistence is the key to perfection._

Jhin had heard a thousand others say that before he first indulged in his own artistic passions. None of them had been nearly so ambitious as he, of course. They had been the painters and actors and musicians, the ones who always spoke among themselves as if the mere stagehands around them were invisible. Of course, they never spoke of such things with each other, only to the questionably-talented new arrivals who had made some small blunder the performance before. He had very much hoped that he, being a man of true talent and vision, would have been able to achieve perfection from the very start.

He cringed now to think how foolish he’d been. Thinking of his first works was an exercise in embarrassment. He had made many... _attempts_ at art before the Golden Demon had first been given a name, and none of them had yet been attributed to them, remembered as unfortunate accidents only by the families of the lost. He was more than happy to leave them to obscurity. 

What was to blame for those terrible works? Substandard materials? It was true that he had worked with different tools then (he had not realized just how unsatisfied he’d been with knives until he’d first felt Whisper’s recoil, the roar of the hextech shot ringing in his ears.) And the canvasses! He’d been so young then, not yet able to master his own nerves to harness their energy, and he’d chosen too hastily. Anyone in a dark place, where they would not be immediately discovered... oh, so terribly dull! There was no art without the danger of discovery.

But back then he hadn’t realized the problem. He’d nearly given up, many times. If he could not be perfect, then maybe he would be better off living his life as a mere stagehand. Better to live in obscurity than to be denounced as a failure, his name no more profound than a mere sneeze.

But... no, he could not stop. He’d tried so many other ways to satisfy his artistic vision, from dancing to sculpting to music, and there was nothing that could capture it in such a satisfying way, even if his current works were nothing short of horrendous. No, the only solution was to learn to tolerate the mediocrity, no matter how much it pained him. 

Was there a single moment when he realized that his work was no longer so horrifying? He could not think of one. But after a while he began to hear whispers of a demon who left glints of gold in the bodies of those it hunted, and he could hear horror and awe in their voices, and he would smile behind his black mask as he went to prepare the stage for the next diversion. 

It was a beginning. Someday, he’d be able to show the entire world the beauty he'd always seen.


	2. Preparation

Jhin prepares himself for the day's performance in darkness and in silence, when he can – far from the lights, away from the screaming audience. 

The black cloth wrappings that he wears under his clothes are always stiff and difficult to unwind, and some of them sting and tug as he pulls them away from old scars and new wounds. But he always removes them without as much as a wince, leaving the old wrappings on the floor for the time being. They are too much trouble to clean, and easy to replace now that he has a patron; he will burn them when he is finished. 

He hums, composing the score for the day's performance even as he examines his wounds by touch. He cannot afford to stop working, not even for a second, because he has learned that his calling has attracted a surprising number of people, and while he is undoubtedly the best of them, a moment's misstep could give them an opportunity that they do not deserve. His patrons provide him with medicine and healing magic; he has rarely been in any real danger. They would offer him a physician as well, to be sure, but he doubts they could find one accommodating enough to conduct examinations in the dark. 

Ah, well. He would see to that problem if it ever arose. For now, he has more mundane needs. There was no need for the razor that morning, at least; none of his hair had grown back, not to any extent that would bother him. 

He reaches for the basin of water – warm water, a luxury he only enjoys on rare occasions – and begins to wash himself. He moves quickly, the rough soap stinging his skin slightly; the chill would return quickly, and even though he had been assured of privacy by his patrons, he still would not stop turning back, looking at the door, half-expecting it to be kicked away at any moment.

They would come for him sooner or later. And he did not only watch for the ones who would want him captured or dead (although there are many, from multiple nations, finally giving the artist his due.) Others were merely curious to see the flesh beneath his mask, to reassure themselves that the feared Golden Demon was as fragile as any other man. He had heard them speculate about his face, sitting forgotten and in disguise among them; his audience seemed divided about which part of his sobriquet fit him best. Some swore he must be beautiful, to match his outward appearance; others mocked him for scars they could never possibly see. A few even claimed that his armor was truly a part of him, that he had lost his legs and arms and had somehow obtained hextech replacements for them, because how else could he move with them so effortlessly?

Let them believe what they liked. They would never see anything of the man beneath; even he had no desire to see him again. No one would see him as anything besides the brilliant artist, hard at work on his next creation. 

He finishes quickly, rinsing away the last of the grime and patting himself dry with the rough cloth as best he could. Such sad accommodations, he thought wryly; surely his patrons could afford better, for all of the money they'd already spent on their little project. Sometimes he wonders what they would do if he tried to negotiate. Surely they knew it was too late for them to put him back where they had found him? 

It is something to consider, when he returns. For now, he has been commissioned to elevate a bitter old minister far above anything he has ever deserved, or even dreamed. A waste of his talents, perhaps, but less of a waste than his confinement.

He finds the replacement for his wrappings, and begins the process of hiding himself once again.


	3. Anticlimax

The throes of death were a strange ecstasy. Jhin did not think he would ever be used to them. 

The great dark Wolf stood over him, snarling with bloody teeth. It had been close, so close, but the creature had closed the distance between them too quickly. Jhin had been too slow, that time. He would not make that mistake again. 

“The curtain falls,” he said to the black creature, feeling the blood that pooled heavily in his lungs. There were so many ways to die. This place was certainly an endless source of inspiration. “Finish this, then!” 

“In my own time,” the Wolf snarled. “You are not the master of death you pretend to be.” 

Jhin barely noticed the Lamb's approach until she was on top of them, her soft paw stroking the Wolf's ears affectionately. “No, dear Wolf,” she said, her voice gentle. “This one is mine.” 

The Wolf's growl rumbled in his gut, but he withdrew, pulling away. “As you wish, Lamb.” 

She knelt over him, looking him over, pity and softness in her eyes. “I wonder,” she began, “if you would be so cavalier about these false deaths, if you knew your true fate.” 

“My true fate?” He laughed as best he could, but soon he would drown in his own blood. Was this creature really so cruel that she would let him die slowly? Surely not, not a being like this. “I know enough. I know death as well as any mortal.” 

“Yes,” she said. “But in what way?”

“It hardly matters.” He is smiling under the mask, forcing himself not to cough. “It will… it will be beautiful.” 

“As I said,” she replied, taking his empty hand, pulling it away from Whisper. The gun fell from his nerveless fingers. “Let me show you your end, Khada Jhin. Then we shall see.”

“Are you offering... a choice?” he asked. How droll. 

“I am.” If she was aware of the humor of the situation, she made no sign of it. If anything, the pity in her voice was even stronger. 

Pity, for him? He was called the Golden Demon. He needed no one's pity, not even death's. “Then show me,” he said. “I have no fear of your visions.” 

“Not yet,” she answered. “But you shall. You may not remember what you see, but you will remember the fear.”

“Ha,” he managed. “As you say... we shall see.”

She said nothing more. She lifted his empty hand, pressed his bare palm against her cheek...

Suddenly he felt time float away, the pain from the Wolf's swipes and bites fading quickly. His eyes fluttered open again, and he saw dim light filtering through curtains, felt something soft against his back. 

A bed. He was unmasked, clad in simple broadcloth and lying in an empty bed. No, this was wrong. This would never be. “Where am I?” he tried to demand, but could manage nothing more than the softest whisper. 

No one answered. The room smelled of dry rot and dust, and the chill he felt settling in his bones could not have been abated by any fire, not for years. He looked around, but all he could see was the old bedding, the curtains that kept the light away. His body felt stiff and heavy, too heavy to move, though he tried. Oh, how he tried.

“How did I get here?” he whispered again. “How??”

_I told you._ The Lamb's soft voice echoed in the chamber. _This is a vision, a mere moment before respite comes._

“No. It... it cannot be.” He was too exhausted even to protest as forcefully as he wished. “How could this have happened?”

_That is not my place to say, Khada Jhin. I can only show you what will be at the time of our coming._

“It cannot be!” He tried to kick the sheets away once again, but it was as if they had been enchanted to carry some insurmountable weight. He could not even feel them anymore – he couldn't even tell that they were there. How could this be his fate? Confined to a rotting bed in a lonely room, unmasked and alone, his works forgotten?

A shadow passed behind the curtain, and Jhin felt his breath catch, for he recognized the shape of the one who come. “This cannot be my end,” he protested one last time. He had imagined his end as the close of a great drama, the beginning of another great performance – a life taken with elegance, a sight as beautiful as any of his works. But this end, the death of a weak, forgotten man? There was no beauty in this!

The Lamb leaned over him, her gaze soft and pitiful, and he tried again to recoil from her – he needed no pity, and most especially needed no more of her pity! But his body still betrayed him; he would not move. 

_Please, do not flinch from me._ Her voice was so soft, so kind, and he would have recoiled from it, if only he could've moved. _The end never comes as you may hope. Someday this moment will come, and I will free you from this shell. It is only a matter of time._

Jhin lay frozen as she reached for him, screaming silently in his own mind, until her paw gently brushed his cheek. 

“No, no no no -”

\---

Jhin's eyes snapped open. 

He was standing again. The familiar towers of the Rift surrounded him, and the smells of smoke and ozone were strong. He breathed them in, deeply, and reached for his face to feel cold porcelain under his fingertips. His armor glinted brightly in the sunlight, out of the corner of his eye, and Whisper was still sheathed at his hip. 

He reached for the gun, held it tightly in his hand, his mind still racing with the horror of... of...

Of what? There had been something, he was sure of it, but the memories evaporated even as he tried to hold on to them, leaving nothing but the cold dread that had inexplicably settled into his gut. He had been fighting, and someone had surprised him. And then... who had done this? What had been done to him?

He took another deep breath, more reassurance that he still lived, and started to walk away from the platform. Whatever had happened to him, he couldn't let it strip him of his resolve. He had a performance to complete. And yet... this new dread clung to him even as he fled from it, and try as he might, he could not push it away.


	4. Patronage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jhin is given an offer to continue his work. Patronage may be an irritating constraint, but is still preferable to confinement.

After a few mere moments, Jhin had very nearly managed to pull himself free. Whoever had bound him should be ashamed of themselves. He'd seen children at festivals tie stronger knots. 

He would think that these nobles would wish to be more careful. Oh, yes, he knew who they are, though they dressed in plain clothes and some of them wear masks to hide their faces. He wore a mask as well, although he doubted that his was nearly as elaborate. But who else could have secured his transport here, under cover of night? Certainly not the ones who had captured him, or the masters who had once tried to oppose him. They would not have dared. 

No, these were people of some influence, who believed that they could use him. He could hear little of what they say to each other, but he understood enough to know why they would want him. Even in his prison he could not fully escape news of the Noxian invasion.

Most of them spoke only among themselves. One of them – an old woman, standing with an admirably straight back before a table set with a steaming cup of green tea – had said nothing at all. She was the leader of this group, or he assumed as much from her commanding presence and the deference that the others made as they nodded to her.

Others were, well, obnoxiously loud.

“So this is the great Khada Jhin?” That was a young man, asking a variation of the same question for the tenth time, as if that would convince others to give him a better answer. Jhin did not like the way that this man said his name. Nor did he care for how _often_ he said it, as if he were some evil spirit that could be kept at bay. “This scrawny, pale man is the one who terrorized -”

 _For pity's sake._ It was time to put a stop to this, for the sake of everyone in the room. It was difficult for him to think rationally with such a pest buzzing about. “Sir,” he interrupted as blandly as he can, his face very still even behind the mask. “I'm sure everyone here knows who I am. I suggest we put idle conversation aside and begin our negotiation.” 

The muttering and side conversations ceased, and Jhin did not have to see every face in the room to know that they had all turned to look at him. Good, he thought. That was a place to start.

“Negotiations?” the talkative one repeated. The poor man was no actor; his attempt at sounding amused were tainted by fear. “You're in no position to take that tone with me, let alone make demands of-”

“Demands? I thought this was a civilized discussion.” He moved his hands, loosening the bindings further. He'd make a show of this, if it came to that. He'd make this place the site of his greatest performance yet, leave the entire cabal behind as a warning that his works could not be contained so easily. But they would be of more use to him alive, if they would only stop this posturing. “You want to command performances from me, and I cannot do adequate work without proper supplies.”

The blustery one was about to speak again, but the quiet woman put a hand on his shoulder and firmly pulled him to the side. His show of indignation did a poor job of hiding his gratitude as she took his place. “You don't need to worry,” she said, her words sharp and cold, revealing little. “We're willing to provide you with what you need, as long as you cooperate.” 

“I hoped as much.” He wondered, what expression had they given him? Nothing even close to appropriate for this situation, he was sure. This woman was reasonable, at least, but they all seemed to lack a feel for nuance. “And what do you consider cooperation?” 

“You were imprisoned because you targeted fellow Ionians. If you were to turn your hand against others, people who mean us harm, we'd have no reason to punish you for your deeds.” 

“There's no need to be so oblique. You want me to kill Noxians for you.” He inclined his head to one side, watching her for a reaction. 

“Precisely. They took us by surprise. We must take unusual measures to prevent another invasion, once they've rebuilt their army.” The old woman displayed no emotion at all. Beside her, the once-talkative man was grinding his teeth, desperately trying to stay silent. 

“An attractive offer. I hope that the catch is tolerable.”

She shrugged, a graceful motion in her plain robes. “Simple enough, at least. You do not target people of any other nation without our instruction, especially Ionians. And you stay hidden; we can't have the people of Ionia finding out that you are free, or we'd have riots on our hands. It would make financing your work difficult, to say the least.”

 _Of course,_ he thought, forcing himself not to sigh. He'd dreaded this day, for all that he understood the necessity of secrecy. Patronage always came with such unreasonable demands; he'd hoped to avoid it altogether. But those meddlers from the Eye of Twilight had taken that option from him long ago. “I suppose that I can work with that.” 

“Good.” She nodded, picking up her tea. “We have several weapons we'd like you to consider. Once you've chosen, we'll provide you with the money and the means for you to embed yourself in Noxus, and send you the identities of your first three targets.”

“Three targets?" He cocked his head again, staring at her narrowly. “How unfortunate. I had hoped you were familiar with my earlier works.”

“I am.” She smiled thinly. “I will allow you to choose your fourth target for yourself, within the bounds of our arrangement.” 

“I... see." He smiled slowly, and so wide he felt his lips start to ache. “I stand corrected. I look forward to working with you.” 

She nodded, then took a sip of tea before waving at the guards. “Take him away,” she said. “Get him cleaned up, and then take him to the armory.” She looked directly at him, as he felt the guards take him by the shoulders. “This arrangement is a risky one for both of us, Golden Demon. Let us not disappoint each other.” 

“My art, disappointing? Never,” he said softly, before the guards led him away. The arrangement was at best satisfactory, until he could find a better patron – preferably one that would allow him to work more openly, because what was the point of being an artist whose performances were only done in secret? But for the moment he needed supplies and financing for his art, along of course with the freedom to work; if they were willing to provide those things, then he would perform to their constraints. For the moment, at least.

Hopefully they would also provide him with funds and materials for costuming. He would almost certainly need a better mask.


End file.
